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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24944491">Under Skies of What We Leave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewerpigeon/pseuds/sewerpigeon'>sewerpigeon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>But the Burn Wanted More [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Awkward Lavellan (Dragon Age), Crushes, Dalish Accent, Dalish Elves, Denial of Feelings, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Emotional Baggage, Emotions, Feelings, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Getting to Know Each Other, Homesickness, Inquisitor Has Issues, Late Night Conversations, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Overthinking, POV Dorian Pavus, Pining, Religious Discussion, Scars, Self-Doubt, Tags May Change, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Vulnerability, some wee headcanons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:09:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,271</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24944491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewerpigeon/pseuds/sewerpigeon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>[continued from part 1]<br/>...<br/>There was a reticence he had never before felt, an unseemly hammering in his chest pounding a rhythm unlike any with which he had been previously acquainted—slower than lust, deeper than curiosity, richer than drunk fun.  What was this?  The Dorian Pavus?  Nervous?<br/>...<br/>Hesitation was unfamiliar to Dorian; normally, such urges were dealt with quite oppositely, a primal, unapologetic urgency corralling him into bed with whomever was willing to indulge in mutual stress relief.  Why overthink a mere moment of pleasure?  There were no consequences so long as one never got their hopes up.</p><p>But his hesitation now came not only from a respect of boundaries, but also, he hated to realize, it came from a place of fear—because he was doing exactly what he was never supposed to do: hope.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>But the Burn Wanted More [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800511</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>here are some doodles i have of eris so far btw if ur interested :^)<br/><a href="https://sewerpigeonart.tumblr.com/post/620443534140604416/im-not-a-fookin-herald-im-jost-lavellan">[x]</a>  <a href="https://sewerpigeonart.tumblr.com/post/621547398852968448/fellas-is-it-gay">[x]</a></p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this work is part of a chronological series! it’s not necessary, but you can start at the beginning <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882511/chapters/60202660">here</a>!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By now Dorian had learned to identify Eris by his footsteps.  In fact his very presence, even unspeaking, had become recognizable—and Dorian wasn’t so sure that was good news for him.  Without turning to face him, he knew: here was the Inquisitor, standing still, at attention—<em>He’s waiting for me</em>, Dorian thought, <em> to speak first, to dismiss him, anything to cue his own response. </em></p><p>His gratitude for such an act, or perhaps lack thereof, so small but without presumption, was instantly mitigated by an intrusive addendum that resupplied a rather foul taste in Dorian’s mouth: <em> like a servant awaiting orders</em>.  He grimaced, appalled that his mind was now aware enough to have drawn such an involuntary, unfair parallel.  </p><p>Bitterness seeped into Dorian’s words and anchored them with weariness, any resolve he’d had to keep his thoughts to himself having long dissipated.  “He says we’re alike… Too much pride.  Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that.  Now I’m not so sure; I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive him.”</p><p>“You said he tried to… change you?”  Dorian hadn’t yet turned to face the Inquisitor, but the elf’s voice was tinged with subdued shock.  “Can blood magic actually do that?”</p><p>Dorian supplied a limp half-shrug, his voice softening.  “Maybe.  It could have also left me a drooling vegetable.”  It made him feel equally better and worse; better to have someone so <em> on his side</em>, as it were, but worse to envision for perhaps the millionth time what sort of miserable version of himself could have come to fruition.  “A part of me has always hoped he didn’t <em> really </em> want to go through with it.”</p><p>“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad he didn’t.”  </p><p>“Not half as glad as me,” said Dorian, sparing the Inquisitor a sidelong glance, his wry smirk reflected back at himself as he returned his gaze toward the pale glare of the latticed window.  Despite himself, despite everything, his pulse skipped.  He wasn’t prepared to have met such a soft visage, such openness—Eris was looking at him the same way he had looked at Dorian in the future; he’d held the dying body of his mentor, Alexius’ downfall and defeat having shaken him deeply—they had only just met, but even then Eris had had that look of, <em> whatever you need. </em></p><p>He’d worn the same look in the tavern as Dorian struggled to face his father, deciding whether to stay or leave; the ghost of the warm touch to Dorian’s arm bloomed as he remembered: <em> If you want to go, Dorian, we’ll go.  But I don’t think you should leave it like this.  You’ll never forgive yourself. </em></p><p>It had been nice to rely on someone else’s reason in the moment, Dorian now thought.  In the same retrospect he considered perhaps he had agreed because Eris had sounded so sure in a moment when Dorian was anything but.  Maybe that’s exactly why Eris’s work ethic as Inquisitor so far had been deference; important decisions under any pressure are difficult enough—the burden of such sudden, unsolicited responsibility for the well-being of so many is likely to compromise one’s trust in one’s own judgement.</p><p>There was a beat in which the Inquisitor might have been considering an apt response.  “Are you alright?” he at last said with sincere regard.</p><p>Such a question shouldn’t have caught Dorian so off-guard, not when it was no secret the Inquisitor was a creature of compassion, but to have that compassion focused upon Dorian was not a sensation he was exactly familiar with—not that it was at all unpleasant.  Was he <em> alright? </em> When was the last time he’d been asked that?  “No.  Not really.”</p><p>Maybe he should have felt more reservation divulging such hidden shadows, but he didn’t, and he wasn’t sorry.  After all, the Inquisitor had seen him laid bare in Redcliffe; what would be the point in playing coy now?  But oh, Maker, how he must look, having been made to feel a child in front of his father once more.  He’d made a right bloody fool of himself.</p><p>At last he turned to face Eris behind him.  Pasting on a customary smile, something that came so easily at this point that he almost believed it himself, Dorian said, “I can only imagine what you must think of me after that little display.  I do hope you were at least sufficiently entertained?  I feel it was quite the performance, myself.”  <em> Deflect, deflect, deflect. </em> Involuntary as blinking.</p><p>“Is that what you think of <em>me?”</em> Eris scoffed lightly but still with something almost like sadness in his voice, not indulging Dorian’s self-deprecation.  “That I would take pleasure in something like that?”</p><p>“I figure if for nothing else you would be keeping me around for your amusement.”</p><p>“Dorian, I know how hard it must have been—”</p><p>“Oh, do you really?”  Dorian couldn’t muzzle the bite in his voice.  “Shameful scandals surrounding a family’s heir apparent is common among the Dalish, is it?”</p><p>Even as he was saying it he wanted to take it back.  But if the Inquisitor took any offense, he did not betray it; no, rather he saw right through Dorian’s <em> de</em>fense, his expression softening ever further.  Dorian could hardly stand it.  At this rate, the Inquisitor was going to have to melt into a puppy to look any softer.</p><p>“I just meant—”</p><p>“I know.  I’m sorry,” Dorian interrupted, having already repented.  “That was unworthy.  All you’ve tried to do is help.  I should be thanking you, not mocking you.”</p><p>“You were brave,” said Eris with kind plainness.  “It’s clear you’ve been brave for a long time.  I can only admire you for that.”</p><p>Dorian’s wry smirk wilted, and there was no masking his bewilderment—indeed, Dorian found himself to be downright <em> moved</em>.  “The things you say,” he mused, barely shaking his head in disbelief.  A curious lack of air began settling into the room.  <em> Damn him. </em></p><p>“I mean it.”  The Inquisitor’s gaze never wavered.  There was an intensity there, a level of scrutiny Dorian could not be so sure he deserved, although he could not be so sure his own gaze was at all subtle.  He was feeling flush.</p><p>Then Eris lightened the atmosphere with that little half-smile he kept in his arsenal, the jut of his crooked tooth easily negligible if Dorian hadn’t begun looking for it.  “I’m learning there is much of you to be admired,” he said.</p><p>Andraste’s pyre, was that a <em>line?</em></p><p>Dorian grinned despite his wont to dismiss this as nothing more than a projection of his own vulnerability.  But surely the silence that passed between them was too heavy for mere camaraderie?  <em>Has</em> <em>he been standing this close the entire time?</em>  And this archaic library <em>was</em> perpetually dusty, but Dorian had the suspicion his mouth had become dry for other reasons.</p><p>There was a reticence he had never before felt, an unseemly hammering in his chest pounding a rhythm unlike any with which he had been previously acquainted—slower than lust, deeper than curiosity, richer than drunk fun.  What <em> was </em> this?  <em> The </em> Dorian Pavus?  <em> Nervous? </em></p><p>He hadn’t realized how taut they’d both been drawn until a cough from one of the other patrons in the room startled them both, and before more could be said, a fortuitous messenger had come running up the stairs, informing the Inquisitor the Commander requested his audience for some Inquisitorial thing or another.  The elf was almost too eager, thanking and dismissing the messenger before pivoting to depart himself.</p><p>With Eris’s back turned, Dorian’s gaze involuntarily cast out into the rest of the library to serendipitously connect with that of none other than Mother Giselle herself, making no secret of her observant dissent.  Dorian was suddenly seized by the impulse to shove his tongue down the Inquisitor’s throat <em> just </em> for her, but it would not have been fair at all to use the elf as a tool for his own spite.  It would inevitably backfire anyway; he would certainly be outnumbered.</p><p>It was for the better, to be sure, Dorian tried convincing himself, for even if he hadn’t been imagining that look in Eris’s eyes, surely the Inquisitor was aware of what tales the imagery of them so close together would tell: the evil mage from <em> Tevinter,</em> where elven slaves were abundant, snuggling in close with the <em> elven </em> Inquisitor; he could have been sent by the magisters to perhaps <em> tame </em> him and keep him under their thumb, some might suspect—come to take for the Imperium what they want.  A perfect puppet.  Wouldn’t that just make a satisfying meal for the starving mongers aching to yank this rotten Tevinter tooth out by its roots?</p><p>Dorian was preemptively embarrassed—not <em> of </em> the Inquisitor, but <em> for </em> him—but regardless of presentation he could not stop himself from staring blatantly after Eris as he reached the stairwell.  As he began to descend, Eris tossed a sparkling look over his shoulder to Dorian, as if knowing the mage’s eyes were following him, before disappearing beneath the lip of the stone, and Dorian’s heart did the most undignified backflip.  He buried his own boyish smile in the book he picked up from the table, blushing like a schoolboy.  Blushing!  Dorian!  This wouldn’t do.</p><p>He was feeling raw and giddy and stupid and cautious enough not to throw a punctuating smug look to Mother Giselle, however fun and satisfying it might have been.  Best not to stir up <em> too </em> much trouble—at least, not at first.</p><p><em> Kaffas. </em> This… This could be a problem.  It was time to drink about it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It wasn’t that Eris had begun treating him differently, per se; the best way Dorian could think to describe it was that an outer layer of the imaginary barrier between them had crumbled.  They hadn’t spoken more of what happened at The Gull and Lantern, but it was exactly the unsaid that seemed to have lent itself to disinhibiting their familiarity.  In retrospect, Dorian had been anticipating some degree of distancing after the meeting with his father, some perceived awkwardness at having been made to witness such a personal exchange, or even pity posturing as an overcompensation of niceties.</p><p>But there had been none of that.  In fact, their interactions had proceeded to be jarringly normal—natural, even.  Chess sessions continued—now with fair play from both parties—and as Eris began growing into the position of Inquisitor a bit more, his general demeanor began to relax around everyone.  The flirting still remained largely one-sided; for all Dorian’s worth he couldn’t commit to any certainty if the Inquisitor was just a good sport but bad at this game, or if there was any reciprocity, or if he was just plain embarrassed—regardless, Dorian would not deny that the teasing was immensely fun.</p><p>He had, however, backed off some, for Dorian had not been blind or deaf to the stares and whispers beginning to accumulate like a mist surrounding himself and the Inquisitor.  It took more than henhouse rumors and inconsequential leers from strangers to throw Dorian, but he regretted the unfairness to Eris who had already been facing enough obstinance in building a solid reputation for himself and the Inquisition.  One never does know one’s own reputation, after all, and it seemed especially true for the dear Inquisitor, for he showed no reservations about upholding his friendship with the Tevinter “magister” despite the… <em> implications. </em></p><p><em> Friendship, </em> Dorian thought. <em>  I suppose it hadn’t occurred to me that’s what it is. </em> Dorian’s only other truest friend had been Felix, and to think of him brought a pang to Dorian’s chest.  He thought of Alexius not for the first time since the whole fabric-of-time debacle.  He had to laugh to himself; Gereon had wanted to literally erase the Inquisitor from existence, and Eris didn’t even take it personally.  All he’d seemed to be concerned with was Dorian’s loss—Dorian couldn’t help but think such a concern influenced Eris’s decision to let Alexius live.  Not that Dorian could make up his mind on whether that was better; he wasn’t sure he could bear to ever see him again—not like that.  In some ways more than others, the mentor Dorian had loved and admired was gone.</p><p>But as far as friendship with the Inquisitor?  Yes, that sounded about right.  They were on, well, friendly terms, just as with his other closest companions.  There had been a built trust between them in battle, and now Dorian knew he could trust the Inquisitor personally as well—maybe that area was a little one-sided as well, but Dorian had never gotten the impression to feel ashamed around Eris.  There was mutual respect.  It felt good to come to terms with this fully; the Inquisitor was a true friend.  Objectively.</p><p>So why did the word sit strangely on Dorian’s tongue?  Uncertainty at such a scarce occurrence for Dorian?  Or perhaps, less admirably, it was his own spite; <em> friends </em> didn’t have the power to wrest one’s attention from the middle of their work by simply appearing in one’s field of view.  It was not the passing touch of a <em> comrade</em>, however innocent, that put searing butterflies in one’s stomach.  <em> Respect </em> wasn’t enough to justify the distracting daydreams or paying too much attention to sparring practice with a glass of wine in hand that seemed to taste so much better with a view.</p><p>Dorian scolded himself.  <em> Not this again.  </em>As the Inquisitor’s <em> friend</em>, he at least owed Eris the courtesy of not allowing such foolish thoughts to compromise his work for the Inquisition.  Or their friendship, for that matter.  But it wasn’t like he was the <em> only </em> one whose eyes followed the Inquisitor about the keep.  He was, however, likely the only one under the most scrutiny, particularly from dearest Mother Giselle who spared him glances that might imply simply making the Inquisitor laugh was a sin of its own.  He’d half a mind to accuse her of pining after Eris herself as often as she seemed to hover about in his periphery, but Dorian practiced restraint in actively antagonizing members of the Inquisition—not for his own reputation, but because he knew his own actions, along with those of the rest of the Inner Circle, would reflect upon Eris himself.  One might never know one’s <em>own</em> reputation, but Dorian would hear enough of the Inquisitor’s to remain mindful of his own influence upon such appraisal.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>For the most part, in the battles they’d shared, Dorian was ultimately more concerned with keeping his extremities fully attached and functioning and keeping his teammates covered rather than paying mind to the fluid, agile, dextrous movements of said teammates, or at least the one in particular.  In fact, as Dorian became increasingly aware of his feelings of… <em> something</em>, he strove even harder to pay attention in battle.  He’d actually been rather proud of his success rate.</p><p>So it was really and truly an accident that now, in their current engagement with a flock of bandits in the Hinterlands, Dorian happened to time the dispatch of one foe just right so that he could whirl to see the Inquisitor’s bow sent flying from a flat-side blow of an enormous warrior’s axe.  Eris staggered and narrowly managed to dodge a roaring backswing of the greataxe, electing to abandon weaponry altogether for now in favor of skirting behind the enemy and bounding onto their shoulders even before they could wrench their axe free.</p><p>The barbarian hollered in frustration, scrabbling at the eleven thighs locked around their neck as Eris grabbed and hung from a low bough of an overhead tree.  The contrast in size between the two opponents was nearly comical, but Dorian would trade laughing for plain astonishment at the power the elf now exercised over the behemoth.  In a matter of seconds Eris had twisted and clenched his legs tight enough around the enemy’s neck, squeezing until their movements became sluggish and limp, at which point Eris wrenched his thighs with a hard motion to snap the thick neck, and the warrior collapsed to the ground next to his now-orphaned greataxe.</p><p>Eris released his grip on the tree branch and dropped nimbly but without flourish—business as usual, apparently.  Although Dorian had never seen that move before.  He only realized he had indeed been distracted when the Inquisitor looked up toward him and shouted his name in warning.  Trusting the enemy was coming right up on him, Dorian was already launching a blast of fire as he whipped around.  The flaming figure screamed and dropped their wielded sword, and Dorian cut their misery short with the bladed end of his staff, snapping out of his momentary transfixion.</p><p>Off toward the rim of a gully, the unlikely duo of Cole and Iron Bull tag-teamed two more archers.  The bandits’ number had severely dwindled, and Dorian moved to close the distance between himself and his close-range companions.  His heart skipped a beat as a stealthed assassin materialized behind Bull with wicked curved daggers raised, but before Dorian even had time to shout, an arrow zipped through the air, through the assassin’s skull, stopping just short of nicking Bull.  The body fell to the dirt like a wet rag.</p><p>Dorian’s eyes retraced the path of the arrow to see Eris maneuvering to re-equip his recovered bow and quiver.  A single moment of breath passed in which the foursome considered they’d rid themselves of the last bandit—the next moment, the Inquisitor let out a sudden cry of pain, lurching forward, his weaponry scattering once again to the ground.  The others turned just in time to watch a final stealthed assassin unveil themself.  With alarming speed, Bull stormed his way over to the foe and brought the flat side of his greataxe down like a hammer to crush the assassin’s skull with no more passion than one might have squashing a bug.</p><p>“Anyone else?” the Qunari challenged the empty air.  </p><p>Cole’s voice, practically a whisper juxtaposed with Bull’s, assured them, “The anger has gone quiet, thoughts of gold blown away.”  He turned his ethereal gaze, partially obscured by that <em> ridiculous </em> hat, toward Dorian as the mage carefully extracted the throwing knife lodged in the Inquisitor’s back.  Eris grunted at the same time Cole said, “But there is new pain and pain renewed, in a single breath the blood can run from hot to cold, <em> it is easy to forget favor is not invincibility.” </em></p><p>Dorian blinked, discomfited by the sense that it might have been, at least in part, Dorian’s own thoughts Cole was articulating; his disturbance at the close call served as a reminder the Great and Wonderful Inquisitor could be killed just as mundanely and unceremoniously as any of them.  He wondered if Eris himself was thinking something similar.</p><p>“You’ll live,” Dorian said with the casualness he was so good at feigning.  “But we should get it patched properly before there’s any infection.”</p><p>“Can’t you just—<em>gah!” </em> Eris tried moving the injured shoulder and flinched with enough discomfort to make the others grimace.  “Can’t you just weave a little magic and be done with it?”</p><p>“Even if I <em> were </em> the spirit healer you for some reason think me to be,” Dorian scoffed, folding his arms, “I would still have to <em> see </em> the wound to know what to do with it.”</p><p>Eris still made no immediate move to remove his jacket.  Within the same moment’s hesitation, Bull chimed in, “You don’t need it to heal <em> too </em> well, Boss.  Scars are sexy.”</p><p>Dorian withheld his own quip with regards to that statement seeing how the Inquisitor seemed to wince harder at that than his actual wound.  “Let’s just get these supplies back to the requisitions officer,” Eris said authoritatively.</p><p>“Well, at least give me something to stop the bleeding until we get there,” Dorian said, a flicker of concern beginning to tickle the edges of his mind.  He tried to temper it; it could very well have simply looked worse than it was because the leather of Eris’s jacket was so pale to begin with.  Terrible choice that—practically-speaking, anyway—no matter how well it brought out the rich tones of his skin.</p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>The Inquisitor began to lead them back in the direction of camp, but as they walked Cole spoke again with his customary eeriness: “Can’t let them see, I didn’t see, they saw us, I told her to run and they laughed—<em>blinding white, blinding white, blinding white—” </em></p><p>“<em>Stop it, </em> Cole!” Eris hissed, whipping around with a ferocity that froze everyone else in place.  The Inquisitor had never been known to have a <em> temper. </em> Taking in the others’ reactions, Eris regained himself and cowed, voice sounding much farther away.  “I’m… I’m sorry.”</p><p>Cole responded with soft matter-of-factness, unfazed by the outburst, his tone piggybacking the Inquisitor’s sullen air.  “You are.  Very sorry, even now.”</p><p>Eris took an unsteady breath, unable to hold the spirit-boy’s gaze.  He seemed truly shaken as he retrieved his bow—again—and resumed his pace toward camp.  The rest of them weren’t eager to press the issue any further.  </p><p>Dorian’s concern grew alongside his piqued curiosity, but he knew better than to express either at this particular moment in time.  Dorian patted Cole on the shoulder good-naturedly.  “We should get you to spend more time with Blackwall; he can teach you to master the art of keeping such merry little thoughts to yourself.”</p><p>“Why would I keep them?” Cole argued as if Dorian were being unreasonable.  “They are not mine.”</p><p>“All the more reason not to give them away,” imparted Dorian, mounting his horse in suit of Eris who was already putting distance between himself and his companions.  Dorian made every effort not to dwell on the fact that his growing fascination with the Inquisitor was what had begun inspiring such unpracticed acuity.</p><p>In fact, he refused to dignify the suspicion that there was anything unwarranted about this fascination—of <em> course </em> Dorian found him interesting; the mage had never met a Dalish elf before; he’d never actually met any elf who wasn’t a slave until he’d made his trek south from Tevinter.  As the astute scholar he was, naturally there would be intellectual, worldly value in spending time with Eris; opportunities to accrue new information and correct what he was familiar with of the Dalish.</p><p>Yes, it was a <em> scholar’s </em> interest he had in the Inquisitor—though he still silently willed Cole not to start further divulging Dorian’s inner thoughts on the matter.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The trek back to camp had been uneventful: no more ambushes, and even conversation had hibernated most of the way save for the periodic exchanges between Dorian and Bull relating to Tevinter and adjacent subjects, both ethical and geographical, that were equal parts bickering and amicable, with the occasional inquiry or outer-monologue input from Cole until eventually the air of discomfort began to fade, for the most part, though it was hard to entirely ignore the way Eris insisted on riding several paces ahead of the others.  It was also hard to ignore the bloody stain shining on his coat as they all stared at it the whole way back, but they at least did a good job in not mentioning either subject—not that Dorian’s worry ever lessened for that fact.</p><p>As was their wont, the crew at their camp within the forest hailed their Inquisitor’s return with great enthusiasm—the rest of his party was acknowledged with little more concern than a set of jewels the Inquisitor might have worn.  This station’s horseman approached to retrieve their mounts.  Bull set off with the requisitions’ supplies, Cole wandered aimlessly toward the edge of the camp and perched like a rook, and Dorian sought refreshment.  Eris was the last to dismount, his descent rather graceless and undignified thanks to his wound compromising the strength of the muscles around it.</p><p>“Your Worship!” huffed one of the camp’s healers, already covering the ground briskly toward the Inquisitor with a basket of medical supplies—it was hard for Eris <em> not </em> to draw attention to himself, what with existing and all that, so as his back had turned to dismount his horse, the ugly red of his jacket had been displayed for all to see.  Eris stiffened, although he had already been quite stiff as it was, as he turned to meet the nurse.  Dorian could see he appeared far more ragged and pale than when he had last seen his face no more than two hours ago.</p><p>“It looks worse than it is,” Eris was assuring the woman, whose heavy brow crinkled with her lack of faith in such a promise as the Inquisitor stood unsteady on his feet.</p><p>“With respect, Your Worship,” the nurse continued with a hurried bow, choosing her duty above etiquette, “I should think that might need some stitchin’.  Just let me have a look here—”</p><p>“No.”  Eris reflexively raised his good arm to stay her, tension casting his features in stone.  Perhaps due to weariness, his interruption was less impassioned than before, but his tone was still a little harsh, though thanks to his growing expertise as a leader he managed to discreetly recover some agreeable poise: “Please,” he said, gently taking the basket from the nurse with a weak gesture toward the medical tent in the heart of the camp, “you’ve no need for me to take your attentions away from others who need it more.  I can take care of it.”  He managed a soft smile; even Dorian was almost convinced, observing the exchange as he crunched into an apple at the empty end of one of the tables.</p><p>“It’s, erm, not an easy spot to reach yourself, Lord Inquisitor, ser,” rebuked the nurse, beginning to accept she would lose this argument anyway but not through pure submission.  Her insistence was refreshing enough for Dorian after having watched enough people around Skyhold eager to bend to Eris’s will as though they were thralls.  He wondered how Eris felt about it—maybe a relief normally, but in this matter he was probably resisting becoming agitated.</p><p>Golden eyes met Dorian’s for a second—Dorian a bit embarrassed to realize he had been watching with no subtle interest—before Eris was looking back to the nurse.  “Don’t worry, I’ll get some assistance,” he said with an encouraging nod and a friendly touch to her shoulder.</p><p>But she was trained to notice things, and as her eyes followed the path of the Inquisitor’s, it was now her turn to catch Dorian’s stare, and she had no subtlety of her own in pursing her lips with curious disapproval, but she made no further argument and bowed once more before returning to her duties as suggested.</p><p>Eris appeared resigned to his own fate just as well, a relenting slope of the shoulders preceding his unhurried approach toward Dorian.  The mage saw no point in pretending he hadn’t been watching the whole exchange.  “You do realize you just told a member of the Inquisition <em> not </em> to care about the <em> leader </em> of the Inquisition—<em>while </em> you’re bleeding out, by the way, albeit at a glacial pace.”</p><p>“I... need your help,” Eris said unhappily, disengaged.  Another bell of concern rang in Dorian’s head—he’d always managed to achieve at least <em> some </em> response to the good-natured prodding.</p><p>“Really?”  Dorian upheld the teasing as he rose to greet the Inquisitor, folding his arms.  “I was under the impression you wanted the exact opposite.  I’d have thought you’d prefer the <em> actual </em> medical professional.”</p><p>“I wasn’t—”  Eris sighed, frustrated, and mumbled,  “I’d <em> prefer </em> a little… privacy.”</p><p>His pallor was surely regaining a little color, and Dorian quirked a mischievous eyebrow, but something in the elf’s face suggested this was not a proposition.  Still, Dorian purred,<em> “My,</em> Inquisitor, sneaking out of camp with the Tevinter <em> alone? </em> People will talk.”</p><p>Eris was unamused.  “Please,” he implored, voice softening.  He still wouldn’t look at Dorian, the final hint this wasn’t simply down to a matter of modesty or wounded pride.  Dorian would not deny his flourishing curiosity, but it was clear this was a sensitive matter; as to why he would select Dorian of all people to handle something like that only further intrigued and also worried him.</p><p>Dorian felt a pang of sympathy as he watched the Inquisitor practically squirm.  It wouldn’t do anyone any favors to prolong his discomfort—not to mention he <em> was </em> still bleeding—so Dorian elected not to press the matter further.  Not right now, at least.</p><p>Dorian gave a small, elegant bow and offered a smile.  “As you wish,” he said, keeping his tone light but less prodding.</p><p>Without further ado the Inquisitor brushed past Dorian, passing off the patch kit and led the way through the barrier of foliage just past the requisition officer’s tent.  Dorian couldn’t help but scan the camp as he turned to follow, not making any eye contact but knowing for certain at least one person in this place was watching and would indeed start to talk, but plainly it was nothing to be dealt with now.  So he shrugged off such self-awareness and pushed through the snagging, slightly damp plants after Eris.</p><p>This newly emblazoned path led into a cozy clearing that looked as though its natural purpose was to indeed be a private, verdant stall walled by taller, thicker plants that blocked sight of the camp save for sparse flakes of tan canvas between the leaves.  Just off from the center was a long-felled tree, half-reclaimed by its mossy neighbors but large and low enough for both Eris and Dorian to straddle it at least somewhat comfortably, at least for all the longer it would take to mend a wound.</p><p>With his back to Dorian, Eris, after a noticeable moment’s hesitation, shifted to remove his long outer jacket, hissing as his injury was freshly agitated with the movement.  It was painful enough for Dorian to watch, a slow process, but he had the impression the Inquisitor wouldn’t accept an offer of help in removing his layers in this scenario.  It was clear he was uncomfortable, but Eris seemed largely in control of his faculties regardless, expertly pretending this wasn’t an unusual circumstance for either of them.</p><p>Neither of them said anything, Dorian far too confused to even risk cracking a smart remark.  The soiled clothing was draped over the fallen tree in front of Eris piece by piece: outer jacket, inner jacket, vest.  When he was down to the thin undershirt, he took the deepest breath he’d taken so far and peeled the garment off, the blood and sweat having thinned the material until it practically looked like a moulting layer of skin.</p><p>Dorian took a moment to process what he was seeing: the fresh knife-wound was not wide but it was fairly deep, definitely well into the muscle, the slow weep of blood having not had a chance to clot during the constant movement of their journey back to camp.  The mixture of dirt and sweat underneath the clothing had diluted the smearing of blood over Eris’s back.  But while it was the one wound that needed attention, it was not what held Dorian’s.</p><p>Rather, he’d been examining the topography of scars underneath the fresh mess, not so much appalled as merely trying to wonder if this was what Eris wanted to keep private.  He couldn’t imagine after having a gaudy and incriminating green glowing mark on his palm that any old scars should take such precedent.  Dorian concluded it was likely not so much the scars themselves as how they had come to be.  And to that it could be anyone’s guess.</p><p>He could have made some joke about a bear attack, but it was dead on arrival even in his passing thoughts.  The marks weren’t indiscriminate enough to be from an animal.  These were deliberate markings, almost methodical the more Dorian scanned them.  Different shapes, lengths, depths, even colors, but none of them random.  Likely burns, some of them, maybe even attempts at branding?  One of them almost looked like it was trying to be a symbol, but maybe Dorian’s eyes were just interpreting it as a child might see shapes in the clouds.  Some looked like old gouges from a blade, straight and clean—Dorian swallowed; maybe a whip—others jagged and mangled, all of them veiled in faint fractal-patterns like hoarfrost… Magic scars?</p><p>A sinking feeling began to simmer in Dorian’s gut, though he didn’t yet have any clear reasoning as to why—and seeing as Eris already didn’t want to broadcast these marks, he sincerely doubted they were going to talk about it.  He was ashamed of them, clearly, and when Dorian recalled Bull’s remark earlier he belatedly flinched in sympathy.  He noticed the elf was shaking slightly—but it wasn’t cold.</p><p>Only a few seconds passed in which Dorian’s thoughts began to race like this, and he quickly pulled himself out of it before Eris began to feel any more uncomfortable.  “A few stitches and you’ll be good as new,” Dorian said, successfully assuming his normal flippant tone.  However, he didn’t miss the quick flash of tension from Eris as he began to speak, as though the elf were bracing himself for some direct remark about the obvious.  “You’ll just have to get used to one-armed fighting while it heals in the meantime.”</p><p>Eris barely grunted in affirmation; at least he seemed to be breathing deeper now—he’d been holding his breath, Dorian realized as he began to tend the wound.  Eris tensed with a sharp intake of breath when Dorian’s hands first made contact, though whether it was from pain or something else he couldn’t assume.  </p><p>Dorian was now in a strange position; of course he wanted to know the story here—Dorian could hardly ever resist the temptation of pursuing any degree of knowledge.  At the same time, he <em> didn’t </em> want to know because he had the suspicion it would not be a story that would sit well with him.  But even without the full picture, or much of any picture really, the sense that this required a great measure of trust was not lost on Dorian, and he felt both humbled and undeserving.  After all, whatever had he done to prove himself any more trustworthy than others of his Circle?  If anything Dorian should be the least trusted—he was <em> Tevinter, </em> after all.</p><p>Was that <em> why </em> he wanted Dorian’s help?  He thought back to their conversation about slaves in Tevinter, Eris’s impassioned distaste, and again had the suspicion his own ignorance had made him the arse.  Was this related somehow?  Was he trying to do this out of spite?</p><p>But then again, maybe he was overthinking it.  Maybe he was completely misreading the context, making this all about him, as Dorian was wont to do, his ego impervious to the notion that something happening in his vicinity had nothing to do with him.  Maybe this wasn’t such a big deal.  If so, Dorian wished this entirely unsolicited, muddy wash of baseless emotion would kindly recede.</p><p>With the area now cleaned and smelling of pungent salve, Dorian had nearly been overwhelmed by the impulse to wash the rest of the dirt from Eris’s skin, but that would most <em> definitely </em> be overstepping at this point.  Dorian tied off and snipped the final stitch in Eris’s shoulder—definitely not the work of an expert, but it should do the job just fine.  “There you are,” he said, throat having gone mysteriously dry in such a short time.</p><p>Not quickly enough did the Inquisitor pull over the loose undershirt, now slightly drier and less clingy.  The rest of his leathers and overcoat he gathered in a ball for expediency’s sake before dismounting the log to walk back to camp.  He didn’t look at Dorian, just managed a hoarse, brief and impersonal “thank you” as he disappeared through the trees.</p><p>Belatedly Dorian considered the imagery of the Inquisitor returning to camp looking rather rattled with messy clothes bundled in his arms, but he hoped the scent of the ointment would be proof enough for any gossipers.  He knew it actually would make no difference to them, but he thought for now it would be less stressful to pretend it would.  Would it be less suspicious to follow the same path back or perhaps skirt the perimeter and return a different way to maybe give the illusion they’d split up to, oh, he didn’t know, find a dropped trinket?  Not that that would require clothing removal.  Although surely no one missed the big red stain on the Inquisitor’s back—he was overthinking again.</p><p>Dorian carried a bundle of his own back into the camp, although his was concealed within his gut and consisted exclusively of nerves.  This wasn’t awkward, he tried to tell himself.  This held no more lasting significance between them than meeting Magister Pavus had.  Just a companionable trust between two people who work closely together due to the pressing circumstances of the precipitous state of the world and such.  Between friends, even.  Nothing more.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>dorian: [panics in home of sexual] just guys bein dudes</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It wasn’t until the final night on their week’s trek back to Skyhold that the watch shifts for Eris and Dorian aligned.  A small faction of soldiers had accompanied the Inquisitor and his companions to pursue their own duties back at the keep, and Dorian did not mind the extra buffer between Eris and himself—<em>now </em> Eris had begun all the behaviors Dorian had been anticipating after Redcliffe: the fleeting eye contact, the selective conversation, the clear preference of doing tasks separate from Dorian.  It was as if they’d just met—or rather, pretending they hadn’t.  Admittedly, it smarted a bit, but if Eris was choosing to avoid Dorian now he supposed he was somewhat grateful the additional company provided some cushioning for that blow.  </p><p>Still, Dorian couldn’t stop thinking whether he had done or said something wrong—whatever the complexity of his spawning feelings for Eris, at the root of it he <em> had </em> become a valued friend, and if Dorian had gone and squandered that without even knowing it, he was going to be kicking himself.</p><p>At least Dorian knew he wasn’t imagining it; the rest of the small troupe had been more wary of the Inquisitor, his aloofness and shrunken demeanor not going unnoticed.  Dorian also knew he wasn’t imagining the accusatory or suspicious glares directed at him after their dealings with the Inquisitor.  And it was a <em> small </em> troupe, yet for some reason several soldiers operated under the assumption Dorian had lost his hearing at some point in their journey—that, or southerners had a very dissimilar notion of whispering than they did in Tevinter:</p><p>
  <em> Oi, what’sa ’Vint done to the ’erald? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Meldran says he used his blood against the Templars.  Saw it with his own eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Meldran couldn’t tell ye his arse from his balls.  He ain’t seen nothin’. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I dunno, didya see the blood on ’is coat? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We all got blood on our coats, Storn.  All the better if the Inquisitor does as well.  I wouldn’t lend my sword to a man who wouldn’t do the same for his men. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Maybe the magister’s lending a dif’rent sort of sword, eh?  Maybe ’e’s just pissy ’cos it was a bad lay. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Shuttup, Storn, or I’ll be lendin’ my sword to yer neck. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> His Worship wouldn’t consent to blood magic, surely? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Heh, since when do knife-ears getta consent in anyfin’, yeah?  Hahaha! </em>
</p><p>Dorian bristled to hear such unsavory conversations and implications, and the directness of his companions was hardly preferable.  </p><p>“Boss didn’t take it so well, huh?” said Bull, skinning the ram for the night’s stew.  The sun had dipped past the mountain tops, night setting in early down in the valley with heady shades of indigo.  Everyone was restless to make it back to Skyhold; chatter swirled around the camp about the excitement to reunite with warm beds, warm food, and warm embraces—even Dorian was getting antsy if only to partake in the slightly-less despondent swill of the Tavern rather than what equated to a watered-down suggestion of alcohol.</p><p>“What do you mean?” Dorian asked warily, grimacing over the lip of his flagon.  <em> Was this really the best the Inquisition could spare? </em></p><p>“Figured you’d finally pulled him aside and told him you want some of that, but he wasn’t about it.”</p><p>Dorian choked on his drink.  “What in Andraste’s name are you talking about?” he spluttered.</p><p>“Oh, come on, ’Vint, the whole Inquisition can practically <em> hear </em> you making doe-eyes at him.  Big, wet blinks.”</p><p>“I do not make <em> doe-eyes</em>.”</p><p>“Heart beating like a newborn deer, unsteady as the fawn’s first steps.”  Cole materialised from nothing at Dorian’s shoulder and jolted him into sending more ale splashing.  “Walking on tiptoes, whispers are shouts.  If I shout, will he hear?”  </p><p>“Thank you, Cole, as always, for your invaluable contributions,” said Dorian tightly with a limp wave of his flagon in a mock-toast before braving the rest of the ale in one gulp.</p><p>“Nothin’ to feel bad about,” said Bull, companionably neutral.  “It happens.  I’m just saying it might make things easier for everyone if you clean up the awkwardness.”</p><p>“There is no awk—There was no <em> confession </em> or whatever it is you’re on about.  Have you considered our dear Inquisitor might just be as exhausted as the rest of us?  He <em> is </em> mortal, you know—you saw all the bleeding and such?”  Why was he so... <em> embarrassed? </em> Dorian of House Pavus was not <em> shy.  </em>It shouldn’t have made any difference whether he found the Inquisitor attractive or if everyone else knew it.  Anyone else who’d caught his eye he’d had no reservations in assuring them of as much—he had done as much with the Inquisitor!  So why, for Andraste’s sake, was this conversation making him so irredeemably <em> flustered? </em> It was unprecedented.</p><p>Bull shrugged.  “Whatever you say, ’Vint.”</p><p>The further night settled in, so too did the camp—Dorian less so.  He had managed to snag a few winks of drowsing, not quite sleep, before the moon spilled into the valley and he was roused to take his place at the Inquisitor’s side in taking over the second shift of the night’s watch.  </p><p>Dorian’s heart skipped; the Inquisitor.  He only now realized he hadn’t seen Eris all day as he approached the elf sitting at the edge of camp; they’d been nestled comfortably against an impossibly high wall of stone so that those on watch needn’t be as concerned with watching their backs.  Eris’s own back was facing the low-burning fire, knees pulled into his chest.  In the prudish illumination Dorian almost didn’t recognize him as the Inquisitor; he seemed so small.  As Dorian’s boots crunched across the loose dirt and stone to join him, Eris sat up suddenly as if pulled from reverie.  Which he very well might have been.</p><p>“Ah, so you <em> haven’t </em> picked up Cole’s knack for disappearing at will,” Dorian couldn’t help teasing, though his heart wasn’t in it as he sat next to Eris, their bedrolls serving as an attempt at cushioning against the hard ground.</p><p>Perhaps it was a little too on the nose; Eris shifted uncomfortably.  “I’m… sorry, I haven’t been—I wasn’t trying to—”</p><p>“You’re a busy man,” Dorian finished for him mercifully, keeping his tone warm.  He wasn’t going to press Eris to explain himself; if anyone in the whole of the Inquisition deserved whatever semblance of privacy they could get, it was the Inquisitor himself.  </p><p>Despite his concerns, Dorian was disproportionately happy they were having any conversation at all.  “How’s the shoulder?”</p><p>Eris lowered his chin in a nearly imperceptible nod, as if coming to a private decision.  “Sore.  You know, I’m a terrible shot with my right hand.  I’ve lost four daggers in the past week.  Maybe I should have been practicing by skipping stones first.”</p><p>Dorian chuckled; Eris seemed to be easing into good spirits, at least.  “Leave it to the great Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor himself, charged with a historical movement against ancient evil incarnate, only to be unceremoniously cut down by a bloody <em> bandit </em> in the middle of the woods.  Varric will be disappointed; he’ll have to take some creative liberties in his tale of your exploits.”</p><p>“You know, Varric keeps telling me it’s easy for everyone to feel like I’m just some figure, not a person.  That I’m intimidating, unapproachable.”  Eris shook his head and laughed dryly, the mere thought of such a perception ridiculous to him.  “Maybe if I remind them of my humble beginnings with a humble end, next time they won’t default to idolizing… an accident.”</p><p>“Oh, a <em> spiteful </em> martyrdom?  Very subversive; I like it.  We may salvage this story yet.”  Dorian played along, but he couldn’t ignore the subtle peppering of despair beneath the sardonics.  “Not relishing the power, I take it?” </p><p>Eris scoffed.  “I think Cassandra could have simply found a mabari, named him Harold, dressed him in Chantry clothes, and he would have been equally qualified for this position.”</p><p>“Hm.  Perhaps the decision merely came down to which of the two of you smelled better.  I certainly think she made the right choice.”</p><p>While they spoke they’d still been keeping their wits and senses about them, Eris more so with the Dalish hunting skills that were surely second nature catching sounds and sights and maybe even smells that Dorian could never have hoped to notice.  A brief silence passed, broken only by the muffled swish of liquid in a small skin Eris had tucked away at his side.  It was offered to Dorian, and with a whiff he was instantly pleased to discover whatever this was had to be miles better than whatever backwash they’d been served from the kegs.</p><p>Dorian basked in the pleasant surprise that this wasn’t turning into something horribly uncomfortable after all.  Perhaps his earlier deflection had been correct; Eris was just tired.  Nothing personal.  He was just about to believe he could relax when Eris spoke again, distantly, only half turning toward Dorian, having not yet looked at him this entire time:  </p><p>“You know, you’ve never told me what you’ve made of all this—of me.  Do <em> you </em> believe I was chosen by Andraste?”</p><p>Dorian hummed.  “Ah, the big question.”  Not where Dorian was expecting this night to go, but he wasn’t exactly put-off either.  He considered the prompt in earnest before answering, “To speak plainly?  Yes.”</p><p>This finally drew a direct look from Eris, brows briefly knit in mild surprise before his expression relaxed.  “I must admit, I didn’t take you for the religious sort.”</p><p>“Well, if you define ‘religious’ to mean sitting in a chantry listening to a blithering hen tell you how to live, then no,” Dorian corrected, the skin passing again between them.  “But if you define it as believing in the possibility that something larger than yourself exists, than yes.  By all means, I do consider myself Andrastian.  I simply do not believe in the Chantry.  It’s certainly not an opinion that makes me popular; I just find it hard to put faith in a system that is, in the most generous of terms, outdated at best.  It is a relic, whether back home or here in the south.  Something from a bygone age desperately clinging to relevance.”</p><p>“You should mind yourself with such talk; Mother Giselle might come barreling through these woods at full charge at any moment.”</p><p>Dorian laughed.  He wondered if it was the drink putting an emphasis on the Dalish accent, relaxing Eris enough to draw out the lilt around certain vowels, or maybe Dorian just hadn’t before taken the time to really listen for it.  Mulling, Dorian took a swig and licked the sweet residue from his lips.  Somehow sobering amidst the alcohol, his words came out a little more intensely than he’d perhaps meant them to.  “I’ll say this, though: I may not believe in the Chantry, but I believe in you.”</p><p>Eris faltered in retrieving his skin, taken aback.  “In… me?” he laughed nervously.</p><p>“Cassandra wasn’t wrong; you were exactly what we needed at the moment we needed it.”  He thought of expanding on that, staring hard into Eris’s eyes, sparkling amber with the dying firelight behind them.  Maybe his silence would have to finish the thought for him; he feared giving any leeway to his weakened inhibition from such a setting would be far too dangerous.  “That is what they’ll tell in all the tales to come.”</p><p>“I don’t know about that.”  He shrugged as if dismissing the notion like a gnat.</p><p>Dorian smiled.  “Doubt looks good on you, Inquisitor.  I rather like doubt.  It keeps you sane.  The tales won’t forget such humility either.”</p><p>“It’s the <em> tales </em> I’m concerned about,” Eris murmured.  “Historically, elves and fame haven’t exactly proved complementary.”  </p><p>After a beat, Dorian gleaned his meaning.  “You worry your clan will be targeted,” he said grimly.  It was not an unfounded fear, but it was regretfully something Dorian would have never even thought about had Eris not suggested as much; he realized this was the first time Eris’s clan had even been mentioned between them—really, it was the first time he’d confided in Dorian at all.  He tried not to think much of it; tongues were always looser in the late hours, especially with the aid of whatever was in this peculiar drink.  The flavor was mild but lasting as it changed from bitter to sweet, his tongue bathed in both warmth and chill in much the same way of peppermint tea.  Each swig filled his chest with honey.</p><p>“I’ve reached out with Josephine’s help.  Our Keeper sent her well wishes, but she says she doesn’t want the clan to be a distraction, by either coming to the Inquisition or by accepting any resources the Inquisition might lend.  She’s proud of what I’m doing, but she feels even frequent correspondence may take too much of my attention.  I suppose it’s a fair point, but they’re never going to be gone from my mind completely.”</p><p>“Family does have a tendency to do that,” Dorian reflected.</p><p>“Solas tells me our clan is unique in our concern for human affairs.  Our Keeper has always faced opposition for such an interest, but she never let it dissuade her; it was all part of how she protected us.  Most other clans isolate themselves, but Deshanna didn’t underestimate how all our paths cross.  She even taught some of us to read.”</p><p>Dorian knit his brow.  “I thought the Dalish preferred oral teachings, guarding what few texts you have jealously.”</p><p>“True,” Eris conceded, “but Deshanna believed it could prove valuable, even in unexpected ways, to know at least the basics of human language.  Although I couldn’t get the hang of it like some of the others; sometimes it felt like we were looking at two separate texts as a trick, but it just took me longer to see the same words they were saying—the letters just… don’t always make sense.”</p><p>The way Eris shifted, scrunching into himself a bit more like a wary turtle suggested this was not something he was particularly boastful about.  “I’m still not very good at it, but it was never an obstacle until I became Inquisitor.  I never expected I’d have to <em> read </em> so much in my life.  It’s exhausting.  I can’t understand how you do it all day,” he added, lightheartedly meeting Dorian’s eyes a moment before continuing.</p><p>“Anyway, when Deshanna heard of the Conclave, she knew whatever happened would affect not only the Dalish, but all elves, and she wanted to know how to best move forward, whatever happened, to keep us safe.”</p><p>“She sounds like a respectable woman,” surmised Dorian, reminded of just how little he knew of the Dalish, or at least how much he knew to be true.  Then, catching Eris’s crestfallen features in the dim light, he added more softly, “You miss them.”  It sounded stupid even as he said it; of course he missed them.  After all, Dorian missed Tevinter, and he could hardly even stand the place half the time.</p><p>“Before the Conclave, my clan was the world.  It was all I knew.  I’d like to see them again, when all of this is over.”  It sounded a faint hope, the way he said it, as if he were looking at it behind a pane of glass; as if it were not so simple as that.</p><p>“But…?” Dorian prompted.</p><p>“The Dalish still worship the gods of our ancestors.  For them to hear me called Herald of <em> Andraste…”  </em>Eris shook his head sadly.  “It may anger them.”</p><p>“Surely they know you better than to assume you’ve abandoned your ways entirely?”</p><p>“I ‘walk in different circles now,’ was how Josephine put it.  Even if I wanted to return to clan life when Corypheus is defeated, I don’t think I could.  They won’t see me the same way; I don’t even see myself the same way.  That’s not who I am anymore, but I can’t figure out whom I’ve become instead.”</p><p>Before Dorian could even open his mouth Eris was rubbing his face, hand carding through his hair as if to sweep away the topic.  “Ugh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be—This isn’t something you should be hearing about.  Hardly a good look for the <em> Inquisitor, </em>is it?”  His breathy laugh was bitter and self-directed as he drew deep from the waterskin.  He scrubbed at his eye.  “Here I am, lamenting my own fate while dooming all the others here to death by bear or something by not paying attention.”</p><p>Dorian would have loved nothing more in that moment than to shove him onto the ground and kiss him, but in a rare show of hesitance Dorian decided against it.  It would have been unfair, wouldn’t it?  To take such an advantage while he was so vulnerable, even if Dorian had been privately begging for Eris to kiss him when he’d been in the same state.  Hesitation was unfamiliar to Dorian; normally, such urges were dealt with quite oppositely, a primal, unapologetic urgency corralling him into bed with whomever was willing to indulge in mutual stress relief.  Why overthink a mere moment of pleasure?  There were no consequences so long as one never got their hopes up.</p><p>But his hesitation now came not only from a respect of boundaries, but also, he hated to realize, it came from a place of fear—because he was doing <em> exactly </em> what he was <em> never </em> supposed to do: hope.  And what made it all the worse was the associated fear of rejection: the idea of Eris pushing him off, telling Dorian he’d misread the situation, reminding him this was impossible and wrong, that he was <em> Tevinter…  </em>Even imagining it was almost too hard for Dorian to handle.  This was more dangerous than Dorian had realized; at what point did he start seeing the Inquisitor as more than some pretty thing to be coveted?  The taste of the curious spirit was beginning to return to the back of his throat, and it was far less pleasant the second time.</p><p>“What was that anyway?”  Dorian gestured toward the empty skin, content to change the subject for both their sakes and successfully keeping his voice even.  “And how long have you been holding out on me?”</p><p>“Family recipe,” was all Eris said, finishing off the spirit.  Then there was that smile again, that foxish look—if he had punched Dorian square in the chest instead it would have had much the same effect.  Something about this man was far more intoxicating than whatever had been in that bottle.  In that moment, suddenly death by Corypheus’ lyrium-addled army didn’t sound so bad a fate after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the inquisitor loves and misses his clan dammit</p><p>dorian: you give me butterflies every time i see you [holds out handfuls of butterflies] seriously eris what am i supposed to do w these</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> All he knows is that it is cold.  Cold as death—where he supposes he should be—except everything hurts.  Everything.  And death isn’t supposed to hurt.  Dying, maybe, but death?  It’s meant to be a release.  But the only thing being released here is a dispassionate groan of pain, startling in its volume only because the rest of the world is dark and still.  Still as death.  But Eris isn’t dead; he has miraculously survived the unsurvivable—again.  How many miracles have to happen before they stop being miracles and become a tendency? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The air is knives in his throat and chest as Eris’s ragged, rattling breaths condense above his face in the deep, deep blue of a cavern.  As he strives to right himself on the permafrost floor, what was an all-encompassing blanket of pain now segregates the injuries in Eris’s body for roll call: broken bones?  Here.  Sprained joints?  Present.  Likely concussion?  Yessir. </em>
</p><p><em> A less natural but all the more recognizable ache throbs in his palm.  Eris raises his hand to look at the mark—or, rather, the Anchor, as it would seem.  The movement is an excessive demand, Eris’s every muscle trembling and numb from the emulsion of cold and shock and pain.  The green is angry, and in time with the Anchor’s pulsing waves, images beat against Eris’s mind like a wild sea against the rocky shore: red lyrium, </em> crash, <em> avalanche, </em> crash, <em> shell of an archdemon, </em> crash, <em> Corypheus, </em>crash.</p><p>
  <em> Eris just wants to lie back down and call it.  Surely no one expects him to resurface anyway.  But there is that pesky instinct, that annoying will to live beginning to crack its eyelids open as Eris further regains control of his faculties.  He’s already sitting; he might as well stand. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Not that his limbs have yet come to that conclusion as he rises in agony, fresh zaps of pain darting throughout his body as he gingerly supports himself against the frigid cavern wall.  Where in Andraste’s name—Andraste?  The Maker?  The Creators?  Which god is he supposed to swear against now?—is he supposed to go? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nowhere fast, that much is certain. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Eris becomes an animal in that his behavior relies on automatic instinct alone.  Little room for thought can be spared as he moves forward, sluggish, a golem just awakened.  Even instinct is limited, for there is no food out here, no water save for melted snow in his mouth.  He has enough reason to think of moving at night when it’s coldest to keep his blood moving as well as aid against snow blindness.  Beyond that there is no rationale; Eris lumbers ahead like a creature of migration: move, sleep, move again, unquestioning.  The wind is merciless, the path endless, the endeavor pointless.  Until miracle number three—give or take—when the spots crowding his aching eyes are not the beginnings of unconsciousness, and the distant voices do not belong to the wind.  Unquestioning, his body knows it’s okay to lie down now. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Eris awoke with a start, a familiar cold sweat heightening the chill of the mountain air standing the fine hairs of his arms at attention.  <em> Haven this time. </em> The Anchor stirred awake in his palm as if it too had been remembering.  It had become a lax ritual at this point for him to pay the mark mind in the morning as one might unconsciously rise to let the dog out first thing—though a dog would have been a considerably better companion than this constant heavy handful of despair.</p><p>Some nights it was Haven.  Sometimes the red future.  Others… Well, at least they were just dreams now.</p><p>Step two of his morning commenced as Eris arose and twisted awkwardly in the tall mirror next to the wardrobe to examine his shoulder.  The stab wound was healing just fine, the angry red ache having faded into an aggravating itch.  He’d have to get the stitches cut soon.  The thought twisted his face not unlike his torso as a flash of shame splattered the inside of his chest.  His eyes fell from the new scar to those of old, and he again felt stupid about the way he’d acted after Dorian helped him dress the wound.</p><p>He’d been hiding from the wake of his own exposure; no one else had seen the scars since it happened.  For him to know what Dorian was seeing, even if the mage had exercised the most basic of manners in minding his own, it was enough for Eris to replay moments in his mind, enough to remind him it had indeed happened.</p><p>Eris had been doing such a good job at ignoring it, attributing it to someone somewhere far away from himself—he relived enough in dreams; he needed somewhere safe, even if it was within the perils of wakefulness.  Eris had been particularly mindful of guarding his back in combat to specifically avoid confronting a situation like that.  He had lapsed in the Hinterlands, grown careless.  Though perhaps the more careless thing was to ignore it in the first place.  Maybe he <em> needed </em> to talk about it.</p><p>He didn’t want to talk about it.</p><p>Still, it had to be a step in the right direction to have trusted someone with even that limited bit of disclosure.  To have taken that step was an undoubted relief; Eris didn’t feel so afraid to ask for help the second time.  <em> Why </em> it was Dorian he couldn’t immediately be sure.  It wasn’t that he <em> didn’t </em> trust the others—perhaps he’d been under the impression that he could show Dorian something ugly and not be seen differently for it.  Maybe it was something in the mage’s self-assuredness that inspired such confidence; there was certainly something about that man that was reminiscent of a gravitational pull.</p><p>Each room Dorian entered was painted with his personality, anyone else in it coated in layers of his bright wit and unabashedness.  Around him Eris felt like Eris, not <em> Inquisitor </em> or <em> Herald </em> or <em> Your Worship. </em> Perhaps he’d been a bit selfish in seeking Dorian’s company to indulge himself in the first sense of normalcy he’d encountered since the Conclave.  He was not blind to the irony that the mage from Tevinter was the person who made Eris feel—well, like a person, but the irony was valuable all the same if only to serve as a reminder that nothing was ever set in stone.</p><p>Eris vacated his reverie upon watching his expression soften and color and turned away hurriedly from the mirror to get dressed.  <em> Fenedhis, </em> this wasn’t what he needed at all.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Eris was not helpless with a blade, but it was clear close combat was out of his comfort zone as his morning spar with Cassandra proceeded to humble him.  It was reassuring to know someone so skilled and resilient as she was on Eris’s side, but discouraging for him to confront the fact he should have been doing more training with blades the whole time.  He’d been complacent in his confidence with archery, neglecting the upkeep of his skills with a dagger.  At least, Eris supposed, if he was to be faced with this, better that it was in the sympathetic range of Skyhold instead of in the last moments of his life as an enemy had him pinned.</p><p>They’d been sparring for close to an hour, sweat rolling from Eris temples and Cassandra’s face flushed from exertion, both breathing hard.  She’d been going easy on him, that much Eris knew, but he wasn’t insulted.  His fighting skills had slowly been resurfacing from their dormancy, and while he sported more bruises than Cassandra, he was feeling good.  The adrenaline lifted his spirits, and the improvement he was making so quickly only further encouraged him.</p><p>His muscles were aching, particularly around his stab wound, but Eris didn’t want to stop while he was on the upswing.  He reveled in the session forcing him to stay present, thinking of nothing but his moves and his opponent’s moves.  He didn’t need to worry about the Anchor, or bad dreams, demon armies, or Dorian, even as the mage approached in Eris’s periphery to join the handful of onlookers who were audience to the sparring session.  He didn’t need to think about the tilt of his smile as he observed with interest, or the chime of his laugh as his neighbor imparted some anecdote, or the way he brought a hand to his chin in thought—</p><p>The taste of blood was unexpected.  The ringing in Eris’s ears blocked out all other sensory input as he staggered backward, Cassandra hurriedly dropping her shield and reaching to steady him.  The pain hit him a moment after the shield did; he brought a hand to his face and dabbed at the tender split on his nose.  His fingers came away red, eyes watering and teeth still vibrating from the impact, but at least it didn’t seem broken.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Inquisitor, I was expecting you to evade in time,” Cassandra was apologizing, baffled, as he blinked the stars from his eyes.</p><p>“It’s nothing to be sorry about,” Eris managed to laugh, reassuring her with a touch to the arm.  “My mistakes are my own.  I wouldn’t expect you to go easy on the enemy.”</p><p>She didn’t seem convinced, her ever-knit brow deepening with a concern that might have gone beyond his physical well-being.  It was not his proudest moment, to be sure, but the incident was all but forgotten as he casually called for a break, the audience dispersing with naught more than a giggle at his expense.  Maybe it was for the best anyway, something to serve as a little reminder for the Inquisition that Eris wasn’t some invulnerable, preternatural entity—although whether that would be considered encouraging or discouraging was largely up for debate.</p><p>With all the aplomb one can muster while holding a hand to one’s nose to ineffectually stem the flow of blood, Eris turned with the intention of having this situation tended without acknowledging the source of his blatant distraction.  Dorian intercepted him anyway, the one salmon moving upstream in the river of the departing crowd.  Eris was grateful for the injury if only to mask the other rush of blood in his face.</p><p>“Is posing as a straw target part of some new strategy to face Corypheus?” Dorian ribbed.</p><p>“I—It was—I just, er, I didn’t sleep well.  I couldn’t focus,” Eris excused feebly.</p><p>“Quite,” said Dorian, not buying it.  “Although I wonder how well that excuse will work on your enemies.  May I?” he asked, an indicative hand inviting Eris to turn his face for Dorian to examine.  Staff-calloused fingers took careful hold of his chin, tilting it slightly, but not so much as to have the blood run back down Eris’s throat.  Even so small a touch had electricity weaving across his skin—Eris suddenly felt more exposed here than he had with his back to Dorian in the Hinterlands.  His eyes sought everywhere but Dorian’s face as the mage’s other hand gingerly brushed the wound, and a miserable itch began tingling inside Eris’s face as the flesh began to mend.</p><p>“I thought you weren’t a healer?” Eris prompted, attempting to diffuse his own self-consciousness with conversation as he again brought his own fingers to his nose to find the split had been erased.  The bleeding was stopped, although a metallic tang still sat in his mouth; the area remained tender and he might still sport some minor bruising, but the burning ache had vanished.</p><p>“Not by profession,” Dorian said, folding his arms casually, “but any mage worth their mana should never be <em>completely</em> incompetent in such regards.”</p><p>“Well,” said Eris, relaxing some, “you’re nothing if not <em> not</em>-incompetent.”</p><p>Dorian grinned, ducking his head in false modesty.  “I was hoping you’d notice.”</p><p>If he had come to Eris with any specific agenda, Dorian made no move to clarify as much.  In the brief lull, Eris held his own against Dorian’s gaze before eventually settling into a wan smile.  “I’d better finish reviewing the council’s reports before Josephine starts vibrating at her desk,” he said with equal regret and relief, gesturing toward the staircase that led to the main hall.  “I’ve been putting it off long enough.”</p><p>“Of course,” Dorian said, unoffended at his hurried departure.  Eris brushed past him, maybe with a more modest berth than what could have been afforded, and Dorian spoke after him quickly to stop him a moment longer.  “If it’s not too forward of me,” he proposed, “if you… ever need a hand.  With reports and such.”</p><p>Eris knew he was referring to his little confession about reading difficulties; with attention drawn to the subject his cheeks warmed, but he could tell Dorian was being genuine.  Eris chewed his bottom lip and managed an appreciative nod before setting off.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It had been a relief to make it back to Skyhold—both for Dorian to know he could once more have a proper wash with a proper bath before sleeping in a proper bed, but also, with Eris resuming the sweeping undertow of his duties at the keep, Dorian was granted a reprieve in which to regroup.  He’d been letting himself become distracted with adolescent daydreams and biting swarms of his own insecure thoughts rather than focusing on the greater threat at hand.  He was grateful things had been returning to normal between him and Eris, but he was here for a reason.  He had a responsibility to the Inquisition, a responsibility to <em> himself </em> to play his part in stopping the threat of Red Templars, Corypheus—and then, if he was still alive, do <em> something </em> about the mess that was his homeland.</p><p>As such, Dorian tried to convince himself, then, that his occasional digressions into studying the—albeit sparse—resources at Skyhold referencing the Dalish, recalling and comparing it with what he’d been taught in Tevinter was, in fact, relevant.  Brother Genitivi’s work was respectable, but Dorian would not accredit him as any sort of authority; still, it was a fresh enough place to start forming questions he could ask to learn more about the Inquisitor’s people.</p><p>Perhaps it had been a lapse in Dorian’s consideration that he hadn’t been paying as much mind to the possibility of an audience to his time with the Inquisitor lately, but it was more likely he had simply stopped caring as much—which might have been a lapse in judgment of its own, but if Dorian was honest he’d grown rather desensitized to the plague of the evil eye throughout Skyhold.</p><p>As such, he was only moderately surprised to be confronted by one of his many admirers—Mother Giselle, no less.  She approached him with all the tempered grace of a cloud covering the sun as he skimmed through his books.  Her fine brow was set in stern disapproval, and before she even spoke Dorian was reliving his oft-disciplined days as a rambunctious schoolboy.</p><p>“What is it that you hope to achieve here?” she said in her airy timbre.</p><p>Dorian was interested to see where this would go.  “I was <em> hoping </em> to achieve the peace and quiet for which I’ve heard libraries are so notorious,” he retorted brightly, “but strangely I’ve begun hearing the most mysterious clucking noise.”</p><p>Her frown deepened.  “Do not play the fool with me, young man,” she intoned.</p><p>Dorian shifted in his chair, voice sharpening but controlled.  “If I wanted to play the fool, I could be rather more convincing, I assure you.”</p><p>“Your glib tongue does you no credit.”</p><p>“You’d be surprised at the credit my tongue gets me, Your Reverence.”</p><p>Giselle paid his innuendo no heed.  “The Inquisitor already faces much opposition as is.”  The note of genuine concern in her voice was unfortunate, as it was a begrudging echo of Dorian’s own recurring concerns.  “Good word of his feats has only grown since Haven, but still many are not eager to trust a member of the Dalish as anyone of authority.  And for him to be seen in such frequent company with a man of your… stature—”</p><p>“Yes, I suppose you’re right, as a man of such incredible looks and talent, there is the risk I may outshine our dear Inquisitor if I’m not careful.  Not that he isn’t quite the vision himself.”</p><p>She spoke slower, as if having been brought to her point more abruptly than she’d planned.  “It is that very brand of remark that has brought some of the Inquisitor’s choices into question.”</p><p>Unbid, heat flared in Dorian’s chest that was equal parts shame, anger, and even protectiveness—which was the least expected.  He rose to face her, folding his arms and leaning his weight into the table.  “If the Inquisitor’s judgement is so <em> questionable, </em> you might find it most beneficial to bring such concerns to his advisors.”</p><p>“Some might say that I already am.”</p><p>“It’s rather gauche to speak as though you are not of the same opinion.”</p><p>Whatever reply lie bated on Giselle’s tongue dissipated as the sound of worn heels approaching stole her attention.  Her flinty gaze moved past Dorian’s shoulder, and she made a little noise of surprise.</p><p>Dorian doubted Eris had heard much, if any, of their exchange, but he easily picked up on the tension.  “What’s going on here?” he asked, wary.</p><p>Dorian relayed, “It seems the Revered Mother is concerned about my <em> undue influence </em> over you.” </p><p>Eris shot her a bewildered look, and she hurried to assure him, “It <em> is </em> just concern.  Inquisitor, you must know how this looks.”</p><p>“How what looks?”</p><p>“You may need to spell it out, my dear,” Dorian suggested.</p><p>Giselle spoke evenly, her shallow well of darker tones having been spent on Dorian.  “This man is from Tevinter.  His presence at your side… The rumors alone—”</p><p>“What’s wrong with him being from Tevinter?” Eris objected.  “Specifically.”</p><p>It sounded so naïve an argument; Dorian almost wasn’t sure if Eris was speaking in earnest.  But a challenge sparked in his eyes as he addressed the Mother, and the realization Eris had enough confidence in Dorian to jump so eagerly to his defense gave Dorian a little thrill.</p><p>Giselle continued with great control over her countenance.  “I am aware not everyone from the Imperium is the same—”</p><p>“How kind of you to notice,” Dorian couldn’t help interjecting.  “And yet you still bow to the opinion of the masses.”</p><p>“The opinion of the masses is based on centuries of evidence.  What would you have me tell them?”</p><p>“The truth!”</p><p>“The <em> truth </em> is I do not know you, and neither do they.  Thus, these rumors will continue.”</p><p>“I have great respect for you, Your Reverence,” Eris responded mildly, his voice a silken sheath for something graver, “but I take pride in the trust I have earned from the people as Inquisitor.  As such, I consider any question of the council I choose to keep a question of my judgement as Inquisitor, and for the sake of the Inquisition as a whole, if this is a concern, I think we should address it directly.”</p><p>“I… see.”  Mother Giselle’s resolve visibly softened, either from electing to trust Eris or simply the resignation of losing this argument.  “I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor.  Only to ask after this man’s intentions.  If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both.”</p><p>Eris offered a shallow nod by way of concession, and Giselle bowed in farewell.  When she vanished behind the doorway into the stairwell, Dorian couldn’t hold back a chuckle.</p><p>Eris regarded him with suspicion.  “What’s so funny?” </p><p>Dorian straightened his posture, stepping away from the table.  <em>“‘I have great respect for you, Your Reverence’,” </em> he parroted with dramatic emphasis.</p><p>“What?  I do,” Eris insisted, defensively crossing his arms even as the contagion of laughter brought about a relenting quirk of his own lips.  “And I don’t sound like that.”</p><p>“I’ll admit, you were rather canny about the whole thing.”</p><p>“I wasn’t—I’m serious.”  He was flustered.  “She’s a valued member of the Inquisition.  People look to her for guidance, assurance that I certainly can’t offer.  They deserve that.”</p><p>Dorian persisted, “And yet, as hard as you were biting your tongue I was afraid it was going to fall out.”</p><p>“Well, forgive me for getting a little frustrated <em> when </em> such an influential figure starts indulging stereotypes and encouraging suspicions about—my friends, about—” He made a vague gesture to Dorian “—equally valuable members of the Inquisition who’ve long proved themselves.”</p><p>“You didn’t have to pull rank on my account.”</p><p>Eris exhaled, shrinking as he pulled his gaze away.  “I don’t like doing that.”</p><p>“I liked it.”  Dorian smirked.  “Frankly I think you should be asserting your authority <em> more.  </em>Take some real initiative around here.”</p><p>Eris gave him a doubtful look before glancing indicatively to the door and back.  “Does that happen often?” he asked.</p><p>Dorian matched his sobering energy.  “More than anyone tells you.”  He shrugged.  “Her concern was well-meaning, if misplaced.”  As Dorian turned to fully face Eris, their stances mirrored, he continued more cautiously but pointedly, with deliberate eye contact.  “I don’t know if you’re aware, but the assumption in some circles is that you and I are… <em> intimate.” </em></p><p>Eris did not look away, to Dorian’s surprise and interest, though his expression betrayed nothing as he appeared to digest this for a moment.  His shrug was dismissive.  “That’s not really the <em> worst </em> thing they could be saying, is it?”</p><p><em> Now </em> Dorian was really intrigued.  His pulse quickened, and he shifted his weight, lifting a brow, probing.  “I don’t know, is it?”</p><p>Eris hesitated.  “Do you always answer a question with a question?” he deflected, keeping his voice steady.  </p><p><em> Little devil. </em> Dorian feigned innocence.  “Would you like me to answer in some other fashion?”</p><p>Eris scoffed.  “If you’re capable.”</p><p><em> There </em> was that smile again, and a foxish glint claimed his eyes.  <em> Cheeky bastard.  </em>Dorian feared he’d go mad for it—feared he already had.  <em> Enough dancing. </em></p><p>Dorian spanned the two steps between him and Eris, one hand reaching for his narrow waist to pull him in too fast for Eris to even uncross his arms before sinking into a kiss like a stone.  There was a mortifying half-beat of resistance from Eris that lasted only as long as it took for his mind to catch up to the situation, then he pushed himself up into the embrace with malleable reception.  Dorian had to be imagining the silken feel of honey on his lips; the taste of the campfire tonic they’d shared was surely a trick of the mind, but he wouldn’t let it drain the depth of his draw.  Vaguely, Dorian thought of past battles, thought of the people he’d set on fire—he wondered if it felt anything like this.</p><p>He broke away first, having made his point, sent his message, signed and sealed, but Eris added a post-script in chasing his lips for one more bit of punctuation.  Elation left Dorian dizzier than any proof ever had or ever would.  They opened their eyes, and he was looking right into the sun.</p><p>“‘If you’re capable’,” Dorian tutted, voice breathy from the flush.  “The nonsense you speak.”</p><p>Nothing but the shallow rise of Eris’s chest and the heat in his face gave any hint they’d kissed at all, but his voice was molten, his eyes a solstice.  “You realize this makes the rumors somewhat true.”</p><p>“Evidently,” Dorian purred low as he stepped backward.  He couldn’t help adding, “We’ll have to explore the full truth of them later—in private.”  Turning to leave, Dorian’s gait became a saunter, blossoming with the satisfaction of his parting words having coaxed from Eris a fleeting rush of shyness contrary to the way he’d so boldly kissed back—perhaps there were two sides to this golden coin, Dorian thought.  <em> Even the sun has a shadow. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>eris: i have great respect for you your reverence<br/>dorian: i hAvE gReaT rEspEct fOR yOu yoUr rEveRencE</p><p>hope you’re enjoying so far!</p><p>continued in <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25381219/chapters/61545181">part 3!</a></p><p>you can find me on tumblr @sewerpigeonart :^)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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